


Wait For It

by kenthel



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, M/M, originally written for worlds connected
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-11-18 06:10:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11285298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kenthel/pseuds/kenthel
Summary: Roxas is a mid-2000′s highschooler with a CD player and he meets Axel, who has a hobby of making people mixed CD’s.





	Wait For It

**Author's Note:**

> this was really fun and easy for me to write, I remember that much. 
> 
> the theme was "time."
> 
> hope you like it
> 
> it's been a while, but if my artist from the project 1020km2rubacava on tumblr sees this - thanks a lot, you were cool and helpful.

Four Days Until Friday, Fall 2006

Roxas looks at his life like it’s a fairytale and who are we to tell him that it’s not. 

Maybe you will look at Roxas, open your lips with an impatient tsk, and ask him to reel it in a little because that kite of an imagination is entering orbit. But today, let’s not. Let Roxas have his fairytale from the comfort of the warm brick of the school against his back, his hooded sweater tied around his waist, and his battered portable CD player in his lap.

Roxas is sitting outside the open double doors of the school cafeteria on the cracked blacktop near a ring of inexperienced hacky-sack players.

The sun is hot and relentless at its zenith and bakes the smooth red brick of the school building until it sizzles. Roxas watches the students attempt to pass the stitched together ball of plastic beads to one another. Their movements are awkward and jarring as if they had rented their limbs the night before. They laugh with each failing flail of a foot. For what they lack in prowess, they make up for in dedication.

One gangly competitor steps backward out of the circle. He is easily 6’, or 6’1”, or 6’2”, Roxas observes from the ground. He wears a black shirt tucked into a pair of blue jeans. The jeans are marked by the tears and wears of time along with half-washed, but legible, black magic marker writings. White threads of abused denim hang over his heels like an old man’s whiskers.

This person settles against the wall beside Roxas. His hair is weighed down and shining with sweat. He runs his hand up the base of his neck and his palm comes away stained with the his hair’s artificial redness. Hanging from his wrist, there is a claspless bracelet of thick metal. If the peeling, pink skin on his wrist is any indicator, the bracelet had been welded together while he wore it. He comments, without target, “It’s so hot.”

Roxas lowers one headphone off his left ear and loses the stereo effect of his music. His body compels him to agree by dripping sweat down his forehead and the bridge of his nose into his eye. He blinks away the discomfort and replies, “No kidding.”

The person peers down at Roxas with the intensity of a cat lurking outside of a mouse’s hole. He smiles. The sun catches in the whites of his eyes and the tips of his canines. He points with a single long digit at Roxas’ lap, and says, “That’s a nice CD player you’ve got there, Roxas.”

“Thanks,” Roxas responds. He scours his mind, his neurons flaring and sparking like faulty wiring, for this person’s name. He has a magnetism that Roxas would not have been able to misplace.

“I’m Axel, by the way,” Axel says. 

Roxas nods. “Right.”

Axel accepts this as an invitation to chat. He mentions that he is a senior, which means that it is his last year in the education system and therefore a higher rank than Roxas, who is a sophomore. He works part-time at a pizzeria as a delivery boy. Delivery boys rely on their charms and vehicle maneuvering aptitude to earn their keep. Axel knows each of the hacky-sack players by name, grade, and favorite musical artist.

“Small talk comes easy to me,” Axel explains when Roxas questions this fountain of information. “School this small, you get to know people. At least by face. You know about that ‘one horse town’ phrase? The other half that completes it is: ‘in a one horse town, everyone knows the horse’s name.’”

Roxas believes that Axel fabricated that ending on the spot, files this knowledge away, and doesn’t label him a liar just yet.

Another member of the hacky-sack ring bows out, beelines for Axel and greets him with rough shove in the shoulder. This is Demyx, a senior who will proudly proclaim that his favorite band is his own. His voice is loud and jovial, his posture relaxed, and his smile tight-lipped to conceal the metal apparatus across his teeth intended to eventually perfect them. Axel answers him in quips and jabs, tilting away as Demyx unconsciously edges nearer. Roxas loses track of their conversation as it links together unfamiliar names and shared times.

Popularity is more than a flawless airbrushed appearance paired with the right clothes or the right people. Roxas sees this quality of Axel vibrate the air around him like an aura he can manipulate at will to bend the responses of those around him. Roxas doesn’t know Axel, but is begrudgingly aware of his confidence.

The bell rings. Students file out from the cafeteria through the courtyard towards their destinations. The hacky-sack crew wraps up and collects their belongings and some offer Axel a parting hug. Axel returns each embrace. He makes no move to join the milling students and leans against the brick with his ankles crossed. Instead he turns to Roxas and asks, “So, mind if I peruse your CD collection?” 

Roxas complies immediately. That ghastly aura is radiating heat as he passes his quaint CD case up. Demyx stands nearby, checks his watch, and waits for Axel.

Axel flips through the plastic coated pages. His review of the contents is stone-faced until his eyebrows pinch and he backtracks.

“You have two Mother’s Milk’s,” Axel observes with a chuckle like he’s announced checkmate in four.

“Divorced parents,” Roxas corrects.

“Oh, sorry.” He clears his throat, fastidiously closes the CD case, and returns it to Roxas as he adds, “Well, see you around.” He pushes off the wall and his rental limbs stumble forward towards the doors.

Demyx takes an eyeful of Roxas: drooping blond hair, oily sheen of forehead, unfilled shoulders, and darting eyes too big to be cynical but too bright to be without ire. He gives Roxas a mock salute and a sloppy grin that flashes the green rubber bands on his braces. He trails after Axel with long bounding steps.

Another bell rings, a warning. Roxas rises and stomps sensation back into his sleeping feet. He stows his treasured collection of CDs away, hustles into the building, and sprints to his next class. His shoes slap the salt-and-pepper linoleum as he goes. He sits, breathless, and realizes that the remaining headphone hanging painfully from his right ear has gone silent. He wonders, distantly, how he hasn’t noticed.

 

Three Days Until Friday, Fall 2006

Roxas sleeps through the end of his class, endures the empty look of disappointment in his instructor’s eyes, and slinks out the door before a potential litany begins anew.

He evades the women in camps of commandeered school desks who prop up their veiny feet and blow their whistles. Save for these outposts, the hallways are barren. Roxas passes chipped yellow lockers, loose trampled papers, and lost pencils.

The doors to the courtyard are open and beckoning and the muffled laughter of the hacky-sack circle is contagious. Roxas passes over the threshold to be halted by a hand on his shoulder.

“Just a moment, Roxas.” It’s Demyx, whose amicable face twitches against its forced, closed-mouth smile. Pungent cologne clings to the hand that holds Roxas back.

Roxas brushes the hand off. The hallway behind Demyx is as desolate as Roxas believed it to be only moments before. He says, briskly, “What is it?”

The coolness of the question passes harmlessly around Demyx, who follows him a half a pace forward, offering Roxas a view of his cleanly shaven neck and the dip his collarbone. Demyx replies, “Got something for you. From Axel.” He shifts the drawstring bag off his shoulder, sifts around inside, and slides out a thin plastic CD case. Demyx holds out the case and Roxas tentatively reaches for it only for Demyx to pull away.

Roxas frowns in confusion.

“I charge a delivery fee,” Demyx explains. He rubs his thumb against his first two fingers to indicate that money is required. He raises his eyebrows and implies, “I also accept hugs.”

He stares down at one of Demyx’s knees and replies, “How about swift kicks to the shin?”

Demyx laughs and remembers belatedly to conceal his teeth with his free hand. He lets Roxas snatch the CD case from between his fingers. Demyx sobers and remarks, “No hugs. Duly noted. Axel’s got gym today, but he’s expecting a rave review tomorrow.” Demyx says his goodbyes, ditches his bag, and eagerly joins the circle.

The CD case has a piece of computer paper tucked into the front. The cover art is an amateur drawing of a sapling tree with sprawling black roots under an orange highlighter sky. Blue letters read, “System.out.println(“Hello, Roxas.”);.” Roxas hums in amusement, pops open the case, and settles against his patch of bricks. Inside there is a generic CD with “Hello, Roxas.” followed by “‘Four Days Until Friday, Fall 2006,” carefully written with in fine tip permanent marker. On the back cover, there’s a tracklist, but not a single title sparks recognition in Roxas. For example, track 1 is labeled, “that first one,” and track 2 is, “pulp fiction intro.” There are 12 tracks in all.

Roxas opens his CD player, plucks his dear Demon Days from the fitted embrace, and tenderly slips it into his CD case. A tingling anticipation courses down Roxas’ arm to his fingertips as he pries Hello, Roxas from the case and pushes it sweetly against the player until it clicks into place. He dons his headphones. He closes the player, breathes, and presses play.

Roxas snorts.

“that first one” is “Good Time Boys,” the first song from the album Mother’s Milk.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Roxas says. He kicks his feet out and snickers to himself. A song he knows inside and out violently shakes a smile out of him for the first time in years.

His attention fades and briefly settles on a very conspicuous couple exchanging saliva against the wall. He was just close enough to see pink tongues and the way one of the participants kept their eyes open and wandering. The song fades and Roxas’ brain naturally queues the beginning of the second track on Mother’s Milk.

A lady’s voice whispers in his ear, “I love you, Pumpkin.”

A man’s voice replies, “I love you, Honey Bunny.”

Roxas squints at the couple and pulls his headphones off one ear to make sure he hasn’t lost his mind.

The man continues, “Alright, everybody be cool, this is a robbery!”

The lady, in a screeching harpy version of the cooing sweetheart she was introduced as, barks, “Any of you fucking pricks move and I’ll execute every motherfucking last one of you!”

The music continues from there. Each and every track keeps Roxas on his toes. The unspoken commandments of musical law are violated when “Brain Damage” played without “Eclipse.” But he can’t say he isn’t entertained. When Roxas listens to one of his nine CD’s, the memorized melodies prompt his imagination to take the wheel. The unexpected tracks sink into his eardrums and stir images of Axel, lit only by the white of his CRT monitor, dragging illegally downloaded tracks into a playlist with a smirk on his face.

The music ends. Roxas sighs, blissed out and chill. He is reminded faintly of the cool tiles of the shower wall after a particularly hot, long shower. But then he feels the subtle vibration of the CD player still working its magic to the disc inside and he checks the screen. Track 12 continues on, playing measure after measure of silence. Roxas watches the seconds tick upward, from the 30’s, to the 40’s, to the 50’s, to the-

A throat clears in Roxas’s ear and he jumps. He turns his head in either direction. Couple still kissing. Hacky-sackers still hacky-sacking.

“ _Heeeeeey, Roxas!_ ” It’s Axel. Roxas holds his breath. “ _I bet I really got you with that first track._ ”

“You did,” Roxas whispers.

“ _Anyway, making mixed CD’s is my hobby. Hope you liked it as much as I liked making it. Let me know what you think or whatever. We’re always like hanging out in the same place so we should be friends. So yeah. Peace out. Rock on._ ”

The CD player stops. A heat, unattributed to the sun, fills his cheeks. Roxas pulls his knees up into his chest, buries his face, and curses into his jeans.

-

Roxas walks home from the bus stop on the corner. His home is aluminum siding in charcoal gray, with dormer windows propped up on a black roof. He slides his gleaming silver key into the back door’s lock. The deadbolt slides open. The kitchen table is covered in a fine layer of dust. Used dishes, cups, and utensils are piled high in the sink.

Dinner occurs at 14:45, when Roxas scours the cabinets for a foodstuff that doesn’t requiring heating. He eats alone at the kitchen counter off a paper towel. He completes his homework standing to resist the urge to doze. As finished as he will be, he unloads the nonessentials from his bag, and returns outside.

The yard stretches out to the west of his home as a half acre of green grass down a gentle slope. Towering above Roxas are three pine trees, devoid of limbs from the trunk to a height of ten feet. A wooden fence circles the property line and shields the yard from prying eyes. Roxas scales the fence. At the top of the fence he stands nestled between two of the largest limbs of the sturdiest tree. The sap stains Roxas’ hands black in spots as he shimmies up through the branches. He uses his sweater as cushion and leans against the tree. The wind bends and creaks the branches above and yellowing needles flutter down. 

Roxas unzips his backpack, pulls out his headphones, and leaves his CD player resting inside. He listens to Hello, Roxas.

The sun sinks like a stone into the horizon. Orange drains from the sunset, flows over the brim of the world, and spills onto the hills of the neighborhood. A dark twilight settles over the valley. The shadows of the houses and trees grow faint. 

The music stops.

The crickets complain and a lone doe wanders across the yard, rustling the forsythia shrubs as she exits cautiously into the street. A two door car in silver, with cigarette smoke drifting from a cracked window, crunches over the gravel driveway and its engine is cut. Low heeled shoes approach the back door. The door slams shut and spooks birds into flight.

Roxas holds his breath and counts the seconds. The number he records stutters as he attempts to account for how much faster he wants the seconds to pass. He focuses on the last, resisting sliver of daylight as it succumbs to time.

“ _Heeeeeey, Roxas!_ ”

-

The air in the kitchen reeks of grease. Roxas follows his nose to the oven, peeks through the dirty glass, and spies a red and white pizza box. There’s a note. Roxas is unable to read his mother’s handwriting, but feels a little more at peace from the effort.

Roxas’ bedroom is a square. There is one wall for the bed, the door, the computer desk, and the closet. The computer is tall, broad, and a shade of no-longer white akin to the soles of well-loved sneakers. It starts. Roxas tears into the plastic packaging a stack of fifty blank CDs sealed with his fingernails. He feeds a CD into the computer. The computer whirls in excitement and prompts Roxas to provide further instruction.

Roxas has never made a mix CD. He drags and drops his top ten favorite tracks into a list along with “Jaded” without “Brain Stew.” It’s exhilarating - leaving an imprint of his soul on a two millimeters thick piece of polycarbonate plastic. There is only one last preparation to make.

The door to his mother’s bedroom hangs on its hinges by splinters. The stale stench of tobacco oozes out the tight hallway. Freshly vacuumed carpeting is plush under Roxas’ feet as he eases the door open. His fingers flick the light switch on the wall to his left. There are no lightbulbs in any of the three sockets of the ceiling fan, which spins languidly after its power is cut.

“You son of a bitch,” Roxas’ mother hisses. She clicks her mouse furiously and hunches over her desk. 

Roxas makes his way around the pristinely made queen sized bed and the long untouched television which stands in the corner like an obelisk. Photographs of Roxas at varying ages, dolled up and candids, litter the shelves of her computer desk.

Roxas’ mother is wearing a black headset with a thin microphone curled around to her scowling mouth. Voices from across the world speak to her as she and her friends compete in the game World of Warcraft. Roxas’ mother is an obsessive, tireless worker and treats this game with no less dedication than her nine to five.

He says, softly, “Ma?”

She swivels around in a flash. Her headset dislodges and hangs around her neck, chaining her to the computer. Her pinprick eyes dilate as she turns away from the light to address Roxas, who lurks in the darkness behind her. She asks, “What is it, honey?” Her screen fades to black and white as her character, uncontrolled, is killed. Rage and protests crackle from her headset.

“Can I borrow your headset for a couple minutes?” Roxas requests.

Roxas’ mother plucks it from the back of her computer. The shouts and commands from angry adult men spill from her speakers. She turns the discordant jumble down to a pathetic whisper and tells Roxas, “Take your time.”

With the cord of the headset wound around his wrist, Roxas makes it to the door before he stops, closes his eyes in preparation, and says, “Thanks, Ma.”

Her words follow him like a bad memory.

“You’re a good kid, Roxas.”

 

Two Days Until Friday, Fall 2006

It begins to rain. Two other students share his cramped bus seat and crush Roxas up against the window to avoid spilling into the aisle. Roxas looks out the window and his breath fogs the glass. He prays for the rain to stop.

It doesn’t. The sky pours on. Roxas scowls at his desk instead of sleeping with heart wound tight and knee shaking. He listens to his instructor’s animated, bland lecture. Time runs out and the bell interrupts the homework announcements. Chairs screech and desks shift. The students funnel through the exit.

The cafeteria is humid and crowded with bodies escaping the rain. There are standing plastic fans propped up in the corners, circulating the air around the whining horde of students. Roxas lingers by the opened doors and rain mists the backs of his sneakers. 

Axel’s voice calls over the crowd, “Roxas!” He waves from a long table shared by the hacky-sack crew. Their table is covered in an organized chaos of cards and the group is divided into pairs.

Roxas rests one hand on their table, looks over Axel’s shoulder, and remarks, “You don’t strike me as a blue/green guy.”

“Me?” Axel asks, pointing to himself. He blinks, reevaluates the situation, and says, “Oh, these aren’t mine; I’m subbing in for Demyx while he copies my physics homework.”

“Any day now,” Axel’s opponent, Larxene, says. Larxene does not smile up at Roxas. Her liquid eyeliner can cut diamonds and her face is aggressive when lax. Her eyes narrow at Axel, feral and hungry, and she taps a long fingernail against the tabletop.

Axel goes over the cards in his hand and tentatively places an Island card face up in front of him. 

Larxene huffs and points at Axel’s deck. “You forgot to draw.” She busies herself with shuffling a separate deck. Her cards are protected by electric yellow sleeves.

Roxas guides Axel through the rest of the turn, narrating the actions. He requests Larxene’s cards as she plays them for inspection and directs Axel accordingly. Axel makes a fine marionette. He taps his cards with boorish enthusiasm and draws cards from his deck with apparent excitement or chagrin. 

Larxene wins. She shakes Roxas’ hand and thanks him for the game.

“I like him,” Larxene proclaims. “He can stay. You”-she shoos Axel away with one hand-“scram.”

Axel effectively mimes a palm thrust against his solar plexus. He weaves words between fake coughs. “Least I’m not shit at hacky-sack.”

“You’re all shit at hacky-sack,” Roxas disagrees.

Larxene cackles, a caustic sound when heard unsoftened by music and the chorus of voices that often join her. There’s an unexpected contagiousness to it that all loud, earnest laughs escaping stern-faced people have. Roxas smiles, too.

-

The question buzzes between Axel and Roxas like a persistent fly waiting to be swatted from the air. They sit and share Roxas’ pizza. Axel’s keeps glancing down at the headphones around Roxas’ neck.

Nonchalant, Roxas starts, “About your, uh, gift.” He gets Axel’s undivided attention and Axel swallows prematurely with great effort. Roxas takes out his own mixed CD, clothed in the same case, with an updated recreation of the original cover art. His design includes a young tree and a twilight sky, but blue and black ballpoint pen, a half-dried grape scented marker, and white-out for stars can only convey so much. He says, “I liked it, a lot. So, I made one for you.”

Axel beams. The CD case shrinks as it’s passed into Axel’s hands. The inside is the plain gray CD with the title, “Axeleration,” and then yesterday’s date, “Three Days Until Friday, Fall 2006.”

“I know what’s getting me to work today,” Axel announces.

The bell, savior turned oppressor, reminds them how quickly forty minutes passes. The lunch window closes. Hall monitors bark orders at the students pushing to enter dense hallways. The cards are collected from the hacky-sack table and counted. Demyx scribbles sloppy lines of pseudo-algebra under his last problem.

Roxas doesn’t want to say goodbye yet.

Axel opens his arms and asks, “See you tomorrow?”

They hug, deaf to the shifting chairs and chatting bodies around them, enveloped in new scents and stretching seconds. Brief whiffs of cheap deodorant, flowery fabric softener, pizza breath, and a hint of Demyx’s cologne clash against secondhand smoke. Axel’s palm slides down his back as they part. The metal bracelet catches on the cotton of Roxas’ shirt.

“Yeah,” Roxas answers, a bit late, a bit lost, and a bit loved.

 

One Day Until Friday, Fall 2006

Axel is absent from the courtyard.

Roxas goes to sit in his position against the brick and cook in the unleashed, ravaging sunshine when Demyx calls his name. Demyx beckons him into the break in the circle to his left. Roxas is initially disinclined to join the hacky-sack circle. Their rakish group has earned a variety of unfortunate nicknames and rumors. Roxas finds that he doesn’t care about reputations during in the heat, laughter, and lack of coordination of his new friendship.

Roxas discovers that he, too, is shit at hacky-sack. The twelve of them laugh more during the forty minutes than the 200 souls hiding inside. Roxas hugs everyone goodbye: Larxene and Demyx and each other sweaty stranger he only knows by name, grade, and favorite band.

-

There’s a bridge that connects one of the main brick buildings of the campus to the large circle of parking lot that the yellow school buses wait to carry children home. Axel leans against the bridge’s rail, whistling between his teeth, and twirling a set of car keys. Roxas makes his way over, using his size to duck and weave and his lack of courtesy to shove.

Axel sees him coming and yells, “Roxas, you free?” He catches his keys and stuffs them into his shorts pocket.

“Yeah,” Roxas replies.

“Wanna go for a drive?”

-

Axel commands an ‘99 Jeep Cherokee in forest green. There is no visible refuse inside, but questionable stains mar the cleanliness. There are lingering odors of pizza and fresh garlic. Axeleration plays lowly from the speakers. Axel drops it to zero when Roxas speaks and raises it afterwards.

“You like it?” Roxas asks.

“Love it,” Axel corrects. He raises the volume to belt some lyrics, some faithful, some his own interpretation and Roxas laughs. The song ends and Axel returns it to the level of tasteful background noise in the lull. He adds, “It just seems so you, you know?”

“I guess so,” Roxas admits. The barbed teenager that Roxas is wants to retort, but his heart has the reins and decides to pick up the pace.

“That’s what makes it so great,” Axel explains.

“Jaded” ends and the speakers whisper static. The Jeep cruises down the highway. Horns blare from the commuter traffic heading in the opposite direction and are distorted into hapless wails by the mix of speed and distance. The stereo shows the track number and the empty ticking seconds. Axel flicks on his blinker and eases onto an exit ramp.

Track 12 00:10

The train station sits on the hill above as the Jeep slowly climbs. There’s a train currently in the station bound for the big city waiting, empty, to depart.

Track 12 00:20

A strip mall creeps into sight next, filled with hole-in-the-wall restaurants and small shops. Axel hovers at an entrance and eases into the parking lot.

Track 12 00:31

They park. The radio’s display fades with the last grumble of the engine. Axel and Roxas sit in ear-splitting silence in front of a restaurant with a hand-painted “Open’’ sign hanging over the door. The name of the restaurant is Cid’s. A man, presumably Cid, sits inside behind a tall countertop, yelling into a telephone as he waves at them through the window.

“Hungry?” Axel asks.

Roxas nods. His hands jitter and he masks the twitch by drumming his fingers against his knees. 

They climb out of the Jeep. They set off the tinkling silver bell over the door and are ushered into a corner two-top by a friendly hostess. She gives them fat menus with laminated pages.

Roxas remembers that he has no money. He sweats like the glass of ice water placed before him. Axel flips through his menu and comments on the laudable dishes.

“It’s on me,” Axel announces. He closes his menu and the pages slap together. One hand gestures an uneven, inarticulate circle as he says, “But don’t go too crazy now.”

Roxas orders a club sandwich with french fries and Axel decides on a pepper and onion omelet with a warning that he intends on stealing fries from his plate. 

Their meals are carried over by Cid himself. Cid greets Axel with a hug and a handshake. The phone rings and Cid bolts away, leaving Roxas and Axel to their devices. Roxas digs eagerly into his sandwich as Axel douses his omelet in hot sauce.

“You know, you and your friends got this big bad rep, but you’re all just a bunch of nerds,” Roxas states.

“Hey!” Axel objects, “I, for one, am not a nerd.” He cuts his omelet up into bite sized pieces.

“So you’re not taking an optional science class your senior year, learning Java, and playing Magic: the Gathering?” Roxas asks.

Axel shrugs. “I’m actually more into Yu-Gi-Oh?”

“You nerd,” Roxas repeats. He takes a bite, chews once, and forces his mouthful up against one cheek to add, “It’s a good thing.”

They talk through full mouths, chewing like cows and holding hands over their mouths to prevent laughter from spewing food across the table. They linger over empty plates. Roxas refuses to check the time, but his mind’s clock continues to turn. The hand-scrawled bill waits under the salt shaker. 

“Guess I have to take you home,” Axel says. He inhales slowly, suppressing a sigh.

“Yeah, I guess so,” Roxas replies.

Axel, true to his word, picks up the tab. He pays in cash and leaves a tip. Cid wishes them well as they leave the restaurant.

They settle back into the Jeep, full and satisfied. Axel starts the car and Roxas cracks his window.

Track 12 00:47

Axel checks his mirrors and says, “You can smoke if you want to.”

“I don’t smoke,” Roxas replies. He subtly tries to sniff the shoulder of his t-shirt, but his nose has long been desensitized to the scent of cigarette smoke. Assumptions and accusations are thrown his way by his teachers, acquaintances, and distant family members followed by looks both dubious and reproachful when Roxas denies it. 

“Oh, sorry,” Axel apologizes.

Track 12 01:00

“ _Um,_ ” Roxas’ voice through the car’s speakers begins, “ _Hi Axel. I know like, we just met and all, but, like, you making that CD for me was really cool of you and … I think it would be cool for us to hang out and stuff. Yeah, uh, cool. Thanks again._ ” Then, quieter, he says, “ _Okay, now sto-_ ”

The CD loops back to the first track. 

“You did my thing,” Axel comments. He’s glancing over at Roxas between checking his mirrors. One hand taps the beat of the song onto the worn steering wheel. The hairs on his forearm are thin strands of blond over light skin. There’s a hard, black stretch of scab on the back of his elbow begging to be picked. His t-shirt fits snugly, the familiar fade of every well-loved and well-laundered piece of clothing. The red of his hair remains a brilliant scarlet. His ears shrug up every so slightly with his smile. 

And his smile cracks like dawn when he catches Roxas glancing back.

 

Friday, Fall 2006

There’s a twenty dollar bill left and note for Roxas on the kitchen counter. His mother’s hasty, looping script only proves legible for the last two words, written twice as large as the others: Love you. Roxas pockets both.

-

The hacky-sack circle parts for Roxas as he enters the courtyard. He stands between Larxene and Axel, an unspoken no man’s zone of insults dropped like artillery shells. The bite of their words is more for amusement of others than damage. The heat of the blacktop crawls into their feet through the soles of their shoes. A graceless kick by Demyx sends the hacky-sack into the wall by the entrance to the cafeteria. The group, with a defeated puff of exhale, decides to retreat to the limited comfort of inside.

Axel defects from the Magic: the Gathering players as they pull out their decks with subdued resignation and heads for a vending machine. Roxas follows with a plan only just beginning to form an outline in his sun-addled brain. Axel gets a bottle of water from the machine, takes a seat on the dusty floor, and presses the drink against the back of his neck.

Roxas feels inside his damp pockets for the twenty dollars and bargains with his unruly voice box to not fail him. There is an uncomfortable awareness of his pulse that causes Roxas to tense. His movement to join Axel on the floor is awkward like attempting to maneuver despite layers of rust.

“Hey, Axel?” Roxas says. 

Axel tilts his head to face Roxas, eyes alert, and replies, “Yeah?”

“What are you doing after school?” Roxas asks in a flurry, forcing out each syllable like each could be his last.

“No plans, you?” Axel returns.

“I could use an ice cream.”

“Me too,” Axel says. He straightens and jumps to his feet. He tosses Roxas his water and tells him, “Wait, hold that thought!”

Roxas misses the water bottle and it lands in his lap. Axel returns in a flash, holding yet another CD case. He plops back down on the floor with a grin and presents it. The cover is dark blue. There’s an outline of a full moon above a black caricature of a pine tree reaching upward. He registers the newfound excitement like flashes of lightning and the appropriate words follow after with the rumble of thunder.

“Thought maybe we could make this a habit,” Axel suggests.

“Sounds good,” Roxas says.

“You haven’t even listened to it yet.”

There is no more whirring of fans, or cacophony of student chatter, or hum of the compressor inside the vending machine. The monitors, the tables, and chairs melt away. Axel leans against the wall with his long legs stretched out before him. The world condenses into a single beam of light to revealing Axel’s face. Everything else fades to gray.

“I will,” Roxas promises.

-

And Roxas does. He waits until nightfall and stares up at the full moon as he listens. The darkness drowns the seconds ticking on the screen of his CD player. Roxas shivers in anticipation, unable to smother his smile, and closes his eyes.

Track 14 04:37

Track 14 04:45

Track 14 04:59

The end.


End file.
